Let Justice Be Done Though The Heavens Fall
by Simbelmyne Nienor
Summary: "Neither of the two men could be called religious; that much was clear. There was no attempt from either of them to flip through the prayer books underneath the pew in front of them or to shake hands and chat with an older couple seated nearby. Instead, they sat solemnly in the pew and waited, nothing more." A chance encounter between two men as they discuss the nature of justice.


Neither of the two men could be called religious; that much was clear. They sat next to one another, still with quite a bit of distance between them, in one of the Église Saint-Séverin's wooden pews that happened to be closest to the door, in uncomfortable silence as they waited for Mass to start. There was no attempt from either of them to flip through the prayer books underneath the pew in front of them or to shake hands and chat with an older couple seated nearby. Instead, these two men sat solemnly in the pew and waited, nothing more.

The older man, an employee of the Prefecture of Paris, had been walking home, passing by the Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the various wine-shops and book-shops closed due to the late hour when he heard it: the groaning melodies of the great organ in the nearby church, that of Saint-Sévèrin. He had cursed, for such loud music disrupted the night and caused his ears to ache, and had been about to continue on his walk towards the Seine – for he quite liked to walk along it with only the stars in the night sky to guide him – when he had a curious realization. It was Christmas Eve, for that was the only explanation for why a church was still open but a wine-shop was not at such a late hour. As if compelled by some guiding force – which he would rather have called curiosity than Providence – he entered the church and quickly took a seat.

The younger man had walked into the church not long after, cheeks reddened by the cold and blond hair all askew, hesitantly sliding into the pew beside him.

The other parishioners were gleefully talking amongst themselves, sharing in their religious spirit with one another. On the other hand, neither of these two men, seated towards the back of the church, had any inclination to do the same. After some moments of silence, the older man felt the need to say something.

"This is a holy day," he said. Such a statement might have been interpreted as a greeting, extending the wishes of peace and good tidings from one man to another. Or, perhaps if one was more prosaic and utterly literal, might have been interpreted as the mere stating of the fact that it was, indeed, a holy day.

"Yes, it is," replied the young man. He fiddled with the leather folio he had grasped in his hands, a couple papers covered in a barely-legible script peeking out.

The older man took notice of this and remarked, "Ah, you are a student?" Perhaps he might have also inquired if the young man was a lawyer, but he hardly looked as if he was over seventeen years of age.

"I am," said the young man. "Of law."

"Have not your classes ended?" the older man said. He attempted to share a conspiratorial grin with the student but it came off more as a feral grimace.

The student shrugged, after having startled slightly at seeing the other man's smile. "They have, although I confess that I have need of revising the contents of M. Morand's lectures. I intend on retaking the course at least one more time, for the contents of the French Civil Code cannot be taught in only a few months."

The older man nodded approvingly.

"Law is not a profession to be learned quickly," he said. He paused for a short moment. "Ah, but you are young! Should you not be at home, with your mother and father, eagerly awaiting the new year and all the celebrations it should bring?"

Laughing softly, the student ruefully shook his head. He looked at the cathedral around him, studying the stained glass as if to avoid the question.

At length, he spoke. "I have no love for the life I had been born into: that of summer _fêtes _at a family friend's _bastide_, that of the Corsican's cold and unfeeling _lycées,_that of a new townhouse and its view of both the splendor and squalor of the city. While I appreciate all that my father has given me, I should never wish to become a man of his character nor of his situation. Perhaps that is why I am staying in Paris this year, for I have done so five times already."

_It has been six years that this youth has been in Paris? _The older man thought. _He is not as young as I had originally thought. _Despite this reevaluation of the younger man's age, the older man chose not to comment on the student's use of the appellation "the Corsican," instead attributing it to the follies of youth. Twenty-two was only one year over the age of majority, after all.

Sensing the youth's discomfort at this topic of conversation, the older man asked him, "Where are you from, then?"

The student relaxed slightly, setting his portfolio on the empty pew beside him once and for all.

"Marseille," he said, a note of pride present in his voice despite his earlier speech.

"Ah, I had guessed Aix!"

The old man would've left it at that, although something inside him made him admit his own city of origin.

"And I am from Toulon," he said, at length. "Like you, I should not wish to return there, even if there was nowhere else in this world to which I could go."

All the student could do was utter a brief and quiet apology before the church-organ rang out once again and the service began.

Thankfully, the service was brief. Both men rose with the others, knelt when required, and occasionally muttered along a few words in Latin. During the sermon, which was delivered by a doddering old man on a handful of Biblical verses with which neither of the men were well-acquainted, the older man noticed that the student adopted a disdainful expression upon hearing certain parts. Both men, it should be noted, kept silent during the Nicene Creed, after which the student abruptly stood and fled the church. The older man followed, grateful that none in the church seemed to notice his departure.

The older man saw the student walk hastily towards the Quai Saint-Michel, only to take a seat on a bench along the banks of the Seine. He followed, slowly, as if wary of spooking the young man. Around the two of them, the night sky was illuminated by only a few stars sparkling through heavy grey clouds. Through this all, the Seine glittered and beckoned any lonely men into its welcoming embrace. The older man shuddered; suddenly, he could bear to look at the river, so long a comfort to him, no longer.

Much like he had done earlier that night, he took a seat on the opposite end of the bench as the student, only speaking after several long moments of silence.

"Is something wrong, young man?" he eventually asked.

The student startled, as if he had not realized that he had been followed.

"Forgive me, _monsieur,_" he offered, "but I had not meant for you to follow me in my departure. Please, return to the church for the rest of the Mass, if that is what you wish."

The older man did not respond directly, instead saying, "Is there a particular reason you could no longer stand to sit in that pew? I do not suspect it is because you felt the Hellfire lick at your feet or because of your religiosity or lack thereof. Tell me, if you wish, what it is that caused such flight."

The student, with his portfolio in his lap, sat in silence, chewing his lip. The polished marble of his brow cracked as he frowned. He looked resolutely out towards the Seine, his frown growing ever deeper.

"How can they speak of justice in such a way?" he asked, after a long while. He didn't need to explicate who 'they' were. "The sermons I would hear in my father's church were always the same. They say that God loves justice; that He rewards those who are just and punishes those who are unjust. Again and again, we are told to seek justice in our own lives, but I question how justice is defined. If this is a just world, the best world, then how can one explain the poverty and suffering that exists not two streets away from here? Surely, there is no justice there! And, surely, we are not doing enough for others today for it to be considered just in God's eyes, are we? A _brioche _thrown from a carriage to a swarm of starving _gamins _– pardon my use of a vulgarity – cannot alleviate any serious suffering and yet this is what most would consider to be their charitable and godly act to carry them into Heaven. I have grown tired of their hypocrisy, truly."

The student grew quiet once more, lost in thought.

"Perhaps," the older man said, interrupting the student's reveries, "that is why Man has created codes of laws and legislation. After all, would you not say that a code of law drafted twenty years ago and a code of law drafted by our Roman forebears share more than they differ from one another? Does that not speak to the ability of man to always create laws in his best interest? Without institutions and legislations in place, young man, it would be impossible to truly perpetuate any of this justice about which you speak."

Making a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, the student responded in a voice that grew more fervent by the word, "But, I should say that laws, much like men, can be corrupt. How can we ensure that what is written is what is best for our fellow man? One might follow the law down to the letter but still transgress against his neighbor or his countryman. Without that structure in place, is it therefore a man's place to determine what is best? What is just? I suppose I am more of the mind that it is the people that dictate what justice is. While some are content to sit by and let things fall where they may, the people, as a whole, will always work things out for the best."

The student was about to add more about the events of '93 being a key example of this, but a glance at his companion told him otherwise.

The older man was pensive as he said, "I am a firm believer in the law, young man. Perhaps it is the nature of my profession that causes me to say this. Perhaps it is my past circumstances. Perhaps it is something beyond our understanding that is the cause. Yet, whatever the cause, I know that our institutions will outlive us. People may change inclinations. They may betray one another and act selfishly. That cannot happen in an impersonal piece of legislation."

He once again attempted to share a conspiratorial grin with his companion – this time, it was returned, however slightly – adding, "Perhaps neither of us are correct, but there is no way for either of us to discern that. You care deeply about the wellbeing of the people; I can read that easily from your demeanor, even without your passionate speaking. Whatever you believe justice to stem from, you help perpetuate it."

The student regarded the older man curiously.

"Those are wise words," he said, a bit disbelieving.

The older man understood this disbelief, for he then said, "You, a student of law in Paris, choose to wander around the city at midnight. You do not seem the type to expect a whole roast chicken with which to break your fast nor do you seem like those idlers who preen more than they pore over their lecture notes. That, in itself, speaks greatly as to your character."

He paused, taking a deep breath and sighing greatly. "I would not say my words are wise, though. Merely, I suppose I understand where you are coming from. You might forget, but I was once a young man such as yourself. I haven't always worked for the Prefecture of Paris. I haven't always been this authoritative figure."

"Thank you," the student said, "for your advice this night. Forgive me, for I have grown weary this past hour, and I should retire."

He rose from his place on the bench, gathering his overcoat – with its aubergine-colored checked lining, clearly a few years out of style – around himself. He tucked his portfolio under his arm and turned towards the older man, offering him a formal handshake.

"Good night, _monsieur. _I apologize, for I never caught your name."

The older man similarly stood and returned the student's handshake. It was an awkwardly formal end to such a personal, yet still detached in a way, conversation.

"Javert," he said. "_Monsieur _Javert."

"Well, _M. _Javert of the Prefecture of Paris," the student said, looking even younger as he made his little joke. The marble of his forehead smoothed out once more, "thank you once again for keeping me company, although I do not think I shall visit a church any time for the rest of my life, however long that may be. I prefer to place my faith in men, I suppose."

Javert tipped his hat both in farewell and in acknowledgement of the student's statement.

"And I place my faith in the institutions of man, in the words that they write," he said. "Farewell, _Monsieur…?"_

"Enjolras," the youth said, before he turned back towards the Église Saint-Séverin to undoubtedly return home.

"Farewell, _Monsieur _Enjolras," Javert said, as he finally brought himself to look back out onto the Seine. He knew that, come the next morning, he would no longer be able to remember the youth's name (although, were he to encounter the young man again, perhaps on the cobblestones of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, such a detail might come back to him), but he was certain he'd remember this encounter for the remainder of his life.

The reflection of the few stars present gleamed in the waters of the Seine, guiding him as he continued his walk. When the church bells rang for the last time and the organ played its final note, he paid them no heed, no longer caring if they disrupted the stillness of the night, for he was lost in thought.

**oOo**

**Author's Note: **Whether the audience believes either Enjolras' or Javert's interpretations of justice and religion are flawed or not is inconsequential. Both are flawed since the two characters who hold those beliefs are flawed. It was never my intention, with this little story, to say what is right or what is wrong, nor was it to espouse my own beliefs.


End file.
